


In the name of blue, white, red

by Jean_grantaire



Series: Résistance [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, WW2 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 19:27:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7946278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jean_grantaire/pseuds/Jean_grantaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras checks on Grantaire the morning after a disastrous mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the name of blue, white, red

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Brief mentions of Nazis/Nazism, some mention of blood and implied (very minor) character death. I might write some more of this AU if there's any interest because the characters fit into it so well?

Grantaire was awoken at an entirely unreasonable hour to an even more unreasonable headache by sharp knocking at his front door, scrambling towards the window in a blind panic for a few moments (and, consequently, becoming so tangled in his blankets that his mission ended with a graceless collapse to the floor rather than a heroic dash to safety) before it became apparent that his door wasn’t being bashed in by the Gestapo.  
When he did eventually make it to the door, grumbling all the way, he became quite convinced that he hadn’t woken up at all: there on his doorstep, rather than the expected faces of Joly or Bossuet or his poor-tempered landlord, was an angel.  
There was something strange to Enjolras’ expression, not set into any of the expressions he was most used to. Today, the fierce expression of a God caught in a war cry, the firm disapproval or concentration was nowhere to be seen, replaced unexpectedly by something closer to the soft expressions reserved for his friends. Concern, Grantaire might have suspected, though before he could examine the strangely-carved marble any more closely Enjolras had stepped close to him and pulled the door closed behind him. Too close. Hardly close enough.  
“Bossuet will have to hold off his orations for another few weeks.” He offered, his tone more casual than he felt after the near escape of the previous evening and this, his usual distant orbit of Enjolras suddenly pulled so much closer. “I refuse to be shot by any man who dips bratwurst in his beer on a matter of principle: I have them, and he doesn’t. A toast to-”  
“Grantaire.” He would have liked to blame Enjolras’ tone for the manner in which he was so effectively cut off, but in all honesty it took nothing more than the sound of that voice directed at him even when Enjolras was sharp and frustrated. For a moment Grantaire was perplexed by the way Enjolras was examining him, then he glanced curiously down to his own chest. Ah. What he had assumed to be sweat or someone’s drink in the excitement of last night appeared in the clear light of morning to be blood spilled across his shirt, more likely that of his missing companion than the officers who had been chasing them. He’d never even learned the man’s name.  
“Not mine.” He managed, the flow of words that had come so easily only a few moments ago dried by the sudden dark turn of his thoughts. Thankfully Enjolras didn’t chase any further explanation, and the hands that had seemed so likely to make a dangerous advance on his shirt buttons relaxed for just a moment, then raised inexplicably towards his face. Grantaire had only a moment for confusion before pain sparked across his head and he recoiled sharply, remembering a few seconds too late the malicious fence his head had encountered in his escape last night.  
By the time Enjolras’ fingertips returned with a damp cloth produced from god-knows-where, only a short pause later, Grantaire had braced himself and he held steady against it. Enjolras was both brisker and less careful for his untrained hand than Joly or perhaps Combeferre, but this was easily made up for by the simple fact that it was Enjolras, and Grantaire was therefore distracted somewhat from the pain by the details of Enjolras’ face this closeness afforded him: the few pale freckles visible under his chin when he tilted his head just so; the precise manner that each individual long eyelash fell against his cheek as he blinked; the short, faint scar at the corner of his jaw from the ring of a particular French police officer.  
He was, in fact, so distracted by all of this that he almost startled at the brush of lips against his forehead, brief and soft enough that he almost missed it anyway. He was quite helpless to prevent the awed expression on his face as Enjolras withdrew although he was spared finding himself on the receiving end of any more unexpected actions as Enjolras pulled away entirely and retreated to the kitchen in search of the kettle, leaving him to touch his fingers to his forehead in amazement for a moment before following after him.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on tumblr at jean-grantaire!


End file.
